


Selwyn

by EAB



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Adoption, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Discussion of Abortion, Implied Mpreg, M/M, None of the bad stuff happens between the main couple, Omega Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postpartum Depression, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAB/pseuds/EAB
Summary: Sherlock Holmes abandons his Uni at twenty years old, his home the same year, and his son a year later. Eleven years later he's found a loving partner who accepts him, flaws and all, but John wants a child, and Sherlock isn't ready to take that emotional step.Meanwhile Mycroft offers him a high profile case involving two wealthy politicians who disappeared, but Sherlock isn't interested. Too mundane for his taste....or is it? As Sherlock investigates a similar case with different variables, he finds the main component in the crime is none other than the son he abandoned eleven years ago, Selwyn.





	1. Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of watching too much Sherlock, reading too many omegaverse fanfics, with a dash of my own personal story. I hope you enjoy it.

Sherlock’s boots splash through the rain puddles and water seeps over the top of his mud stained leather lace ups. He’s three blocks away, but his leather jacket is already soaked through. His shirt is soaked through. His shoes, socks and underwear are soaked through. The only thing that’s dry is the bundle at his chest. He clutches the terry wool for dear life. His breath smokes as he pants, willing his tired vessel to move just a little longer. For gods sake, just a little longer and he’ll be safe. The lightning flickers and the rain lessens as the church comes into view. He’s moving too hastily, he knows, but there’s no time to stop. He’s got to get him inside. Inside where there’s help. Where someone can keep him safe. The door is heavy, likely oak wood, but he pulls with the last of his strength.

There’s candles lit to stamp out the desolate air of dogma. The stained glass can’t filter in the moonlight like the sun. Mary, and Jesus with his golden halo, are shrouded under the guise of darkness. Sherlock stands in the cool entryway keening his eyes for a sign of life. There’s no one there, but there’s light flickering on the mantel, a saving grace.

“Can I help you?” His startled breath stirs the bundle at his chest. He turns toward the voice and the child wiggles. His forehead pinches from his broken sleep, but fully squirms when he realizes his belly is empty. It’s been over four hours since either of them ate.

“Please.” Sherlock steps toward her. “Please- my son. He’s-” Sherlock can’t even get the words out before she’s grabbed the blanket and rushed him to the alter to inspect him. Sherlock follows behind her more slowly, but determined, the last efforts of his vessel’s biology.

“Shhh….” The woman both hushes and soothes his son before he starts wailing. The woman is a nun, most definitely, an older one by the looks of it. Her black headdress is fitted around her head, but it doesn’t restrain her as much as the ones at his once church in Yorkshire. She unwraps the blanket he’s in as if it’s a casket, terrified what she might find inside. It’s obvious she’s not expecting a perfectly healthy, albeit cranky, ten week old baby. Sherlock unwraps the satchel from around his shoulder and takes a step forward.

“There’s bottles, nappies and formula in here.” He tells the nun sitting it on the floor in front of him. “His birth certificate is in there, as well as his hospital records. He’s 4.25 kilograms and 60.96 centimeters. He has a birthmark on the back of his right knee cap. He eats every three hours….this will be his fourth so he’s a bit cussed.”

The woman turns toward him and Sherlock steps back. She scrutinizes his appearance with her wisdom pinched eyes. Even without his skills of observation, he’s sure his clothes tell a story. The leather jacket he’s wearing is too tight, like he’s trying to impress someone with his style, rather than keep warm in London’s bitter cold and fog. His jeans are ripped at the knee. A style perhaps, but in reality, a fall. His shoe is also scuffed at the front, a result of the same tumble. His hair reaches his shoulders, too long. A disheveled mop of oily waves. He hasn't taken a proper bath in days.

“Are you on drugs?” Sherlock shakes his head. He hasn’t done a thing since he found out he was pregnant. That was over a year ago.

“His system is clean.” The child in her arms kicks completely out of the swaddle Sherlock wrapped him and begins to whimper. “He’ll need to be fed.” Sherlock looks at the satchel to remind her. The nun bends over, but doesn’t take her eyes off Sherlock as she reaches for the parcel bag. She pulls it from the strap, and slides it across the freshly polished marble floors. Good, she’s suspicious of him. _I would be too,_ Sherlock silently agrees. 

“Might want to hurry mind you.” Sherlock can observe his son’s behavior even from here. The newborn’s fist find his mouth, and he sucks the side of it to self soothe. Sherlock knows it's an innate need to suckle, but it sounds raw and desperate to his ears. When that doesn't work the child resorts to bunching himself in order to mimic the feel of the womb he once inhabited. The lapping sounds in the air become frantic, and the baby bobs his head, searching for whatever nipple he can latch onto. It’s their final warning.

The woman prepares the bottle, but she’s moving to slow. Sherlock paces back and forth, the movement making his son’s whimpering more bearable. He should have thought to stop on the way here to feed him, but he was terrified he wouldn’t make it this far. Besides, that’s the problem isn’t it? He can’t think like this! 

The baby wails out a vengeful howl and Sherlock slaps his hands over his ears. The sound scrapes his ear drums, clawing its way through his sinus', and catching in his throat. His body tenses and then shakes. He grounds his teeth together and lets out a strained grunt as the blood drains from his face. The baby’s cries ricochet through the churches arched columns, echoing and magnifying.

_Can’t._

_Can’t._

_Can’t._

The image of himself wrapping his hands around the child’s neck to silence him writhe in Sherlock’s head. He covers his eyes as if to shut them out. “Please! Make him stop crying!” he pleads. The sound is unbearable, and Sherlock’s shiver becomes a full blown shake. The combination of adrenaline and anger surges through his blood.

“Hurry up!” he screams. Hands ghost over his neck, the feel of fingertips on his adams apple, and then a full force choke. He’s able to squeeze in just enough air through his narrow passageway, just enough so he doesn’t pass out completely. A part of him considers it might be better if he passes out. He knows the hands clutching at his throat are invisible, but it doesn’t stop the panic attack. He drags himself to the alter and sits blinking rapidly. Closing his eyes doesn’t help him if all he can see is that night rewound and replayed.

Minutes pass before he realizes the church is silent once more. His breath is ragged, as though he’s just run the length of Wembley. Sweat drips from his temples, heats his arm pits, and saturates his palms. He hears the thirsty gulps, and appreciative whimpers from his son’s throat. One last vagrant image of Sherlock squeezing the life from his helpless son makes him stand and head toward the exit. The woman’s footsteps are padded, but Sherlock can tell she’s following him. Her robes make a distinct sound as she shuffles over the marble. Sherlock speeds up. He can see the handle of the church door, gold and gleaming. Leaving his son here will be the end. Once and for all he’ll be done with it. The escape from his hell. He reaches out to pull the handle when the nun’s voice stills him.

“One day he’ll come back here asking questions,” she says simply.

Heat swells under his lids as he squeezes the handle.

“Don’t leave him without an answer.”

One day his son will grow up, in whatever home he lives in, and he’ll want to know who Sherlock was and why Sherlock left him. He can't give him the answer now...but maybe... 

Sherlock’s eyes widen from the rush of the realization. He doesn't notice how tight he’s holding the handle of the door until he unwraps his aching fingers from around it. He searches his pocket and finds a silver pocket watch, dangling from a half link chain, inscribed with the initials. S.H. The writing is curved and semi slanted. He planned to sell it for cash, but he concludes this is more appropriate. After all, it's a present from his own father. Sherlock places the watch in her outstretched hand and gives his son his first and only gift. A mystery of Sherlock’s own making.

“Take care of my son.” Sherlock wrenches the door open with more strength than he needed to open it. His body freezes when he reaches the threshold of the doorway. The last effort of his omega biology at work, no doubt. Every muscle in his body itches for him to reach around and grab his son from the nun that holds him, but he pushes through that voice that says "stay". Sherlock walks through the pearly gates, and listens as the voice for him to claim his child grows louder. But he keeps walking, he never even looks back, and claims his redemption instead. 


	2. 221A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things to know about this Omegaverse AU
> 
> 1\. A bond and marriage is treated the same legally, though marriage has a more traditional and sentimental value. 
> 
> 2\. There are inhibitors and suppressants for both alphas and omegas to prevent pregnancy. 
> 
> 3\. Omegas tend to exhibit more nurturing traits, while alphas tend to exhibit more protective instincts. There is speculation that this is due more to societal expectations than actual biology. No test have proven that omegas are inherently more nurturing than alphas or betas, though they do tend to produce more dopamine, OxyContin and EPEND, a fictional hormone found only in Omegas. You'll hear this come up again.

Sherlock lays across the sofa with his ankles crossed and a wrinkled paper in his hands. He picks it up and discards it so many times through the morning that there's a permanent crease in the middle. His eyes scan the crossword briefly before he connects the puzzle in one fluid motion. Rather than solve it piece by piece, he scans the boxes, spaces and orders the clues categorically. His mind works like a computer, input and output, adjusting appropriately.

Had brunch. ATE.  
Illegally made booze. MOONSHINE.  
Short band of flesh. LIGAMENT.  
Makes beloved.??????

The computer stalls.

Makes beloved.?????

 _How do you make a beloved?_ Sherlock sits up and scratches his clean shaven chin. A beloved?

_Highly regarded, adored, much loved, cherished, treasured, prized, admired, esteemed, worshiped, revered, venerated, idolized. Dearly beloved._

Sherlock whisks the thoughts away with a wave of his hand.

"Makes beloved?" he says the clue out loud. The kettle whistles, breaking Sherlock out of his trance, and he looks up as if he’s forgotten John is home.

"You say something?" John stands in the kitchen on the kettle, making him a cup of tea no doubt. Sherlock’s eyes graze over him, taking in his grey jumper and black trousers.

_When did he get dressed?_

“No thank you,” Sherlock answers the question before John asks it. “Beloved,” Sherlock mutters before he bites his lip.

“Beloved?” John blinks at the supposed pet name.

"Not you.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The crossword. The clue is makes beloved. How on earth do you make someone a beloved?"

"Marry them I suppose." John snickers before he kisses Sherlock’s cheek. He places the cup in front of Sherlock and sits straight backed even on the edge of the couch, his military background indisputable.“Cuppa tea?”

“I already said no.” Sherlock huffs at John's attempt to placate him. "There's an “e”. The word going down is meal, but-"

“Let me take a look.” Sherlock tosses the paper into John’s lap and bites the tip of his finger. If his mental capabilities are on par with John’s his brain really must be rotting. It’s from sitting too long. He needs to do something. _Anything._

"Engagement?" John offers as he squints at the paper. "Oh wait there's not enough letters."

“Obviously.” Sherlock ruffles his hair and stands from the couch. His blue silk robe sways behind him as he paces through the flat. John doesn't speak, but Sherlock can tell what he's thinking by the way his lips purse when he sips the refused tea.

"I'm not."

"Not what?" John says looking up at him.

"Pissy," Sherlock replies.

"Did I say anything?"

"No, but judging by how quickly you're drinking that tea you're hoping to finish and get the hell out of here." Sherlock snatches the paper up off the end table and crumples it into a ball.

"Going to the hospital today. Why don’t you walk me? A little fresh air might help."

"No, no, no, no, no." Sherlock slinks into the arm chair like a shedding snake and leans his head back. “Since when did you become boring, John?”

"Since we needed to make some extra money."

“Money.” Sherlock sighs out. “Yes it's always about the money isn't it?” He chuckles darkly. “Doesn't make for very interesting cases though.”

John doesn't reply. Sherlock drums his fingers on the arm of the couch in a 4/4 count. _Bach. Beethoven. Mozart. How did they ever cope in this mundane world_? He would give anything to defeat this old enemy once and for all. No, not Moriarty who, for all his brilliance, causes more havoc than he's worth. Boredom. His arch nemesis. He loves the life he’s acquired, there's no doubt about that, but living with John on Baker street has its drawbacks. Domestic bliss doesn't suit him. Sherlock can no longer slip out as he'd like and disappear for months in London's jungle. The cases help. They're a reprieve from the everyday monotony, but sometimes he wishes he were back on the streets.

_Scrimping. Scraping. Surviving._

"Mm...but I suppose not starving has its benefits.” Sherlock answers his own thoughts.

“Yes. I've always been passionate about not starving,” John replies.

 **Bing** *

Sherlock pulls the phone from his pocket and reads the message.

-I have a case for you. MH

-Not interested. SH

-You don't even know what the case is yet. MH

-If you're giving it to me it means there's a plethora of field work. I haven't heard anything from Lestrade so most likely some petty crime you're linked to in some way. You're texting instead of calling, which means it isn't classified. And you've waited till you were sure I was awake to text, which means it isn't of urgency. Conclusion: Boring. SH

-Very good, brother. Shall I come around for biscuits and tea?  
MH

\- Opportunistic of you, but my answer is still no. SH

-Be there around noon. MH

-Oh good. John and I will be rutting deliriously by then. SH

-Your heat came early this month? MH

Sherlock frowns at the text. Of course, he can't say he's surprised his brother is aware of his heat cycles. It's common knowledge. Every omega endures them. It's inevitable. But for Mycroft to know his heat cycle is a little….

“Well it's just plain creepy isn't it?”

“What’s creepy?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock sets the phone on the end table before he jerks his head toward John. “You're still here? I'd thought you'd gone.”

“Yes. Well-um- listen, Sherlock. There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about.” Sherlock doesn't reply, but he stares blankly. John coughs to fill the dead silence, clear sign of frustration and anxiety.

“Well...I was thinking...about the flat next door.” John smiles through his nerves. “I was wondering what do you think about us leasing 221A as well?”

* **Sniff** *

Sherlock isn't listening. He's too busy sniffing out John's real motive. Literally sniffing the aroma wafting from his alphas glands. He has no doubt John wants to buy 221A, Sherlock found blueprints for the renovations weeks ago, but why?

Hmm….Sherlock tilts his head to observe his lover. _What are you thinking about John Watson?_

* **Sniff** *

_Longing...possessiveness…need…_

* **Sniff** *

_With a hint of...protectiveness?_

Sherlock stares at him for seconds….minutes...drawing out his secrets.

“Umm. Sherlock?” John spills a bit of the tea as he pushes the saucer across the table. _Result of shaky hands._

“Hello?” John is nervous. His eyes dart to the left. He's considering. _Who? Mrs. Hudson?_

“Sherlock?” John waves his hands in front of Sherlock's face.

 _No. The flat next door. But why would we need the flat next door? We've got more than enough room for just the two of- Oh_. Sherlock's lip quivers.

“Sherlock are you all-”

“You want a child,” Sherlock says it plainly.

“Hm?” The color drains from John's face. _Dead give away._ “What's that now?”

“You've tried to camouflage your desire by striking up a casual conversation about property, but your real intention is children. You know I'll never move, so you've decided to lease 221A as a compromise and expand our flat. You and Mrs. Hudson have already discussed it among yourselves. She's more than pleased with the arrangement, as told by the blue prints under our bed, and her lingering in the doorway.” Sherlock hears footsteps thundering down the stairs. “You've picked up extra shifts at hospital to pay for the renovations. Judging by my brothers sudden interest in my fertility, I imagine you've spoken with him about it as well. More than likely you thought to ask Mycroft for the money, but your pride won't let you ask my brother. Still, you thought if we already renovated the property I'd be more inclined to agree. So you have asked Mycroft about any high paying cases he could toss our way.” John gapes at him dumbstruck and Sherlock tuts annoyed.

“Can't say you're still surprised, John. It _has_ been 4 years since we've met.”

“No I'm not, it's just-”

“It's just you're wondering how I knew about your desire to have children.”

John doesn't reply.

“It's written all over you.” John looks down at his jumper. “No, not in your clothes.” Sherlock narrows his eyes, and focuses on the dull blue of John's iris. “In your mannerisms….especially your eyes.”

John gazes at him thoughtfully and Sherlock quirks one of his brows. “What?”

“That was surprisingly sentimental coming from you.” Sherlock presses his lips together before he begins his rant.

“The changes in you began several weeks ago at a Sally’s wedding. Sally, despite her shortcomings, managed to find a beta and bond with him. After a quick perusal of the groom, I deduced that Sally had found herself an ordinary man with no professional longevity- rented suit, borrowed shoes, asked you for a job recommendation in the louvre- but there was something else, something more, and it was as clear as the pout on her face as she sipped her water while everyone else drank to mitigate their lethargy. That alone could have told the story, but her dress needed to be taken out several sizes before the wedding. Add that with the fact that she filled out the top of her dress more than she's ever filled out those hideous dress suits, and there's only one possible conclusion: Sally Donovan is having a baby. I assume you've heard from Lestrade.” Sherlock holds the bottom of his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder what the divorce rate is for shotgun marriages these days.” He chuckles at his own cheek, but John doesn't join him.

“Well?” Sherlock asks.

“Well what?”

“Am I right?” John stays silent and Sherlock further considers his mates disposition. They've been bonded officially for a year, and though Sherlock and John never spoke about children before they mated, Sherlock knows John wants them. That much is obvious. Any time they find themselves walking through the park, or nearby school, John's eyes skim the playground, watching the rugrats tumble backwards down the slide and flip upside down on the monkey bars. Logically it makes sense. Sherlock is an omega. John is an alpha. The purpose of his monthly heat is to breed, and, if Sherlock's past experience is anything to go by, without inhibitors he’d be pregnant by now. It's also normal for John in a sense. He’s 42, the prime for alpha breeding. He has a steady job, outside of the Work, and despite random sexual encounters, has never married or bonded. He and John are bonded in the physical sense, which is more than enough in the eyes of the law; a “mated pair”. John of course wants to marry, but Sherlock’s made his position on that quite clear.

_Marriage is a sham upheld by traditionalist and romantics, ie., idiots._

Still, if Sherlock is honest, he has all the pieces for the puzzle of societal expectations. _Find a partner, bond, mate, breed-_ and yet Sherlock's mind pauses every time he tries to picture himself with a child. He won't let himself go there even hypothetically. He won't reopen that door in his mind that he shut and locked years ago.

Sherlock pulls back from his musings as John stands up and drags the dining chair closer to him, enfolding their hands together before he places them in Sherlock's lap.

“I don't want you to think I'm going behind your back with all this. I planned to discuss everything with you, but I wanted to make sure I had my foundation set up before I came to you,” he admits.

“I respond to logic better than to sentiment. You knew the likelihood of me saying yes increased dramatically by leasing the other flat.”

“Yes, but also...well to be honest I wanted to show you I could do it. Be your alpha. More than just sexually, that is.” Sherlock doesn't reply since he knows exactly what John is referring to. Outside of the bedroom there's no debate who's in charge. However, if John showed him he was capable of taking control in this, Sherlock might not feel so overwhelmed with the possibility of adding one more to Baker Street.

_Sound logic._

“When we bonded, I never expected us to ever have this conversation. I resigned myself with the fact that I could just be with you, and that's not a consolation prize by the way.” John assures him. “But I can't deny that I have…” Sherlock watches John's eyes trail over him.

“Have what?” Sherlock asks.

“Well. I've thought about what it would be like, us with a family.”

 _A ludicrous idea really._ Sherlock pulls his hands from John's and places his fingertips together. Thinking.

_“Us. With a family.”_

_I can't take care of myself let alone a child_. Even with John's help. It's impossible. Despite that, Sherlock is curious about John's motive. And he can't just let his questions go unanswered.

“Why do you want to have a child, John?”

“What?”

“A child. Why?”

“Well...that's hard to pinpoint, Sherlock. I-” John pauses. “I've always wanted children. Even when I was in the war. I wondered what would happen to me if I ever died. I'd have no one to pass on my name, my blood.”

“And yet you choose now when you're retired and relatively safe. Why?”

“What?” John repeats.

“Well, unless I'm mistaken your health wasn't in jeopardy over the past 4 years since you've been home, and you've always been marginally stable financially. So why now?” Moments pass in silence as John looks at him with that bemused gape; mouth parted, forehead pinched.

“You're really serious aren't you?”

“Of course.” John's confusion shifts into pity and Sherlock frowns.

“For god's sake Sherlock. I don't just want to have a child with bloody anyone!”

“Well of course not. There are genetics and compatibility to consider. If you're raising a child with someone, you'd probably want some kind of familiarity between you-”

“How is it possible that someone so brilliant can be this ignorant?” John sighs loudly and shakes his head before he explains. “I don't want to have a child with you for your genetics- I.” John pauses before he swallows down the apprehension in his voice. “I want to have a child with you...because you're you, Sherlock.”

 _Because I'm me?_ Of course he was him. Was that some kind of play on words?

“Oh, I see. You're referring to our bond.” Sherlock taps his index finger on his chin and John gives him a relieved smile. “It’s interesting how the vessel accelerates its own agenda.”

“What's that now?”

“Well it's simple, really. You've placed sentimental value in order to validate a biological need.”

“No. You've missed the point entirely.” John sighs deeply.

“Have I? In the time I've known you, you've had many lovers John, bully for you by the way. If one of them became pregnant accidentally, I'm fairly certain you wouldn't have wanted them to terminate the pregnancy. Now, obviously you don't hold them in as high esteem as you hold me, but that doesn't negate the fact that your need to procreate goes far beyond the reach of this bond.”

“So you're basing my desire to have a child with you, on my hypothetical acceptance of an unplanned pregnancy.”

“Probable, not hypothetical, but yes.”

“All right then what about you?”

“What about me?” Sherlock blinks.

“If you and I had had an “accident” would you have kept the child?” Sherlock leans back peering over the tips of his fingers.

“This is interesting.”

“What is?”

“You've boxed yourself in with your own question.”

“No I haven't.”

“Haven't you?” One of Sherlock's brows raise. “You know the answer to your question already yet you've asked anyway. Why? Trying to test me, John?” Sherlock’s heart pounds in his chest as he challenges John's dominant glare. Riling him up is the most titillating thing Sherlock's done all day.

“Answer the question, Sherlock.” John's cool gaze slides over him. John stares at him, demanding the answer, glaring almost accusingly.

“I never thought I'd be at the end of such a criminating question coming from you.” Sherlock smirks. The adrenaline that floods his system from John's powerful scent, along with that hard edge that crosses John's face. It's enough to make Sherlock play this game a little longer.

“While I find it unlikely that I would get pregnant given the precautions we take, I'll indulge your curiosity. If I had become pregnant as a result of carelessness, I wouldn't have hesitated to terminate the pregnancy.” John stares at Sherlock, anger pinching his eyes.

“I don't believe you.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. I said I don't believe you.” Sherlock tenses at the confidence in John's tone.

“It's the truth.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, but struggles to sound bored.

John shakes his head slowly and Sherlock can see the resolution in his eyes. “I think you would have kept the child and loved it more than you've ever considered loving yourself, Sherlock.”

“Heh- don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not being ridiculous. I know you like to think you’ve mastered how to hide your emotions, but after four years of knowing you, I've learned a bit about “observation” myself.” Sherlock's lip quivers, but he doesn't speak as John leans in toward him.

“I've seen the way you look at the bodies of dead children at crime scenes. More than just a specimen to observe, you look at them like actual humans….”Sherlock's heart races with every word he speaks. “Like their life is precious to you.”

“O-omega biology.” Sherlock clears his throat. “The protective instinct in me flairs up when I'm near dying or dead children. It's science not sentiment. I'm hardwired to nurture. You should know that much since you're a doctor.”

“You might be right, Sherlock Holmes. I can't say for sure where that part of you comes from, but I know you wouldn't go through with it.”

“You underestimate both my disdain for monotony, and my love for the Work.”

“I don't.” John shook his head. “I know you hate anything that you think is ordinary, and in your mind, that includes your biology. But choosing to be a father doesn't mean giving up the Work. You can do both.”

“I'm not interested in having children, John.”

“Mm…” John nods holding back a grin now. “Is this the same disinterest you had in having friends? Becoming lovers? Mating for the first time?” Sherlock's cheeks flush and John laughs out loud.

“You're a fool,” Sherlock says, but his voice is less even this time.“A sentimental fool, but a fool nonetheless.”

“Am I?” John mimics Sherlock's haughty tone perfectly. He tilts his head and leans in closer. Sherlock breathes out to calm himself. Their lips are almost touching and Sherlock can feel the heat of John's mouth on his top lip.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers, swallowing the knot of desire that builds in his throat. He stiffens, fighting the urge to stretch his limbs, and straightens his spine instead. “I'm not so idiotic that I'd let my biology dictate my-” His words are cut by the tongue dancing over his pout. His body immediately melts with the feel of John's weight pressing him into the armchair. Sherlock taste John's eager tongue and he flicks the tip of it, reaching up to hold his mate's head steady. Sherlock's legs slide apart, responding to John's scent wafting through the air. A mixture of hospital disinfectant, shoe polish, Earl Grey tea and raw alpha musk. His back curls reflexively as John's hands grope his emerging erection, and he feels the first traces of wetness, dampening his black trousers.

_Calm down...calm down…_

He plays right into John's skilled hands, inching his pelvis up to grind their bodies together. He tries to think of something, anything to overpower the animal taking control. To his horror Mycrofts disgusted face creeps into subconscious.

_《《《For heaven's sake, Sherlock. He's just kissing you._

_It's been a while. Hard to control it._

_Well put a little more effort into it at least._

_I am! It's not like John is a lay about. He's very thorough in his….ministrations._

_Ah, yes. Good old John. Despite your refusal to compromise your happiness remains his number one concern._

_I'm aware. Thanks._

_And John loves you, you know?_

_That's fairly obvious, yes._

_He won't shun you for your past. He's a better man than that._

_Yes, well. Thank you for your opinion, Mycroft. I realize this is an attempt from my subconscious to assuage my own guilt, as well as some disturbing unresolved tension between you and I, but please disappear. You're making me soft.》》》_

Johns fingers undo his belt, and Sherlock presses his bottom toward the end of the arm chair, instinctively eager to move closer to John's roaming fingertips, to rub neck to neck, exposing his most vulnerable gland, daring, wishing, begging for John to lick him. It's nauseating how one particular scent can make him bend over. Is John trying to prove some point? If so it’s lost. Sherlock already knows he's an unprotected heat away from pregnancy, and currently he's a scent away from breaking.

* **Knock knock.***

The door opens and a very real Mycroft stands at the door with a blushing Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock jerks his head toward them, pulling away from the kiss, and the air pops and sizzles between he and John.

“Am I...interrupting something?” Mycroft’s humming voice asks. It drips with false concern.

“No,” John answers. “I was just leaving for work.” Sherlock watches as John stands up and he fights to the urge to reach out for him. John grabs his jacket, wallet, and cuts through the gap between Mrs Hudson and Mycroft without another word. The minute he's gone the tension bleeds out, leaving Sherlock shaken with heat.

“I find myself surprised, brother. I didn't really expect you two to be in the throes of passion.”

“Neither did I.” Sherlock sighs and closes his legs as his brother steps in fully. Mycroft considers taking a seat on the couch, but changes his mind when he assesses the state of Sherlock. No doubt wondering whether the couch was used in a similar fashion as the arm chair.

“Oh, that's the joy of bonding isn't dear? Having a domestic one moment and then kissing the next.”

“A domestic?” Mycroft eyebrows raise. “Do tell, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well, I don't know if it's my place, I only heard a bit of it.”

“Feel free,” Sherlock grunts, as he lifts his hips to rebuckle his trousers.

“Well it seems like John has finally got the frog out of his throat, and asked Sherlock to have a baby.”

Mycroft genuinely appears shocked which makes Sherlock second guess his original conclusion that his brother knew about John's intentions. “Well, that _is_ wonderful news.”

“Stuff it Mycroft.”

“I think I'll leave that to John, hmm?” He removes his jacket placing it on the couch as a barrier and finally takes a seat. “Mrs. Hudson, I have some tea here for you.” Mycroft shakes the tea in his hand, directing her to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson folds her arms and snatches the tea from his hand.

“It's bad enough this one thinks I'm his housekeeper, but now he's got you treating me like the maid. I swear I don't know how your mother raised you two,” she mumbles. Despite her indignant huffs, she moves toward the kitchen and brews a fresh kettle of tea.

“Now look, you've upset Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says dully. He sits right in the armchair and uncrumples the news paper.

“No more than usual, “ Mycroft answers unperturbed. “Besides, we appear to have much to discuss over tea.”

“I have nothing to discuss.”

“Well clearly that's not true.” Mycroft smiles. “Why didn't you tell me I'm to be an uncle?” Sherlock looks up from his paper and shoots him a scowl.

“You're no closer to being an uncle than Mrs. Hudson is to being prime minister. All you managed to do is ruin John’s chances of rutting me dry.” Mycroft's lip curls at his brothers crudeness.

“Well that's not the proper way to go about it.” Mrs. Hudson appears from the kitchen with the tea. “There has to be plenty of oil to get the engine going if you follow me.”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock clears his throat to indicate the inappropriateness the conversation.

“That position you two were in might feel nice, but it's not the best for conceiving.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“And you can't just expect your alpha to just rise to the occasion can you? You've got to put a little work in yourself.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“I can't tell you how many times I had to suck-”

“Save me from the rest of that sentence!” Sherlock yells.

“Now, now Sherlock.” Mycroft sniggers. “Mrs. Hudson is giving you valuable advice.”

“Oh, thank you dear,” Mrs. Hudson replies warmly. Mycroft places a paper bag of biscuits on the tea tray and shoos her with his hand. She glares at him before she disappears to the kitchen once more.

“Oh wait till mummy hears. If you two keep it up I predict I'll have a nephew by Christmas,” Mycroft remarks.

“Not only are your predictions unwarranted, they're also unwanted and unnecessary. I take inhibitors to prevent any accidents, and so does John.”

“But he's asked you to bear him a child.”

“And I've already told him my answer is no.”

“Because you're afraid a child will disrupt your way of life?”

“Because there is more to me than being bred, Mycroft. We never even discussed the possibility of children when we bonded. He knows that's not the life I want. I won't be a slave to my biology.”

“Only a slave to your emotions.” Mycroft smiles in that condescending way Sherlock loathes. “As far as I can see, the only life you'd want is that which revolves around John. Even the cases don't hold as much importance without him there. When you're not with him, you feel his loss. Call it biology or the bond, whatever you need to make you feel less dependent on him, but his presence in your life is more obligatory than you would like to believe.”

“Heh- you think I can't live without him?”

“You think you can?” Mycroft smirks. Sherlock doesn't reply, but presses his nose against the paper to avoid Mycroft’s stare.

“Oh Sherlock. Your stubbornness is your own achilles heel.” Mycroft pulls out a tablet as Mrs. Hudson brings a plate with biscuits.

“Oh thank you Mrs. Hudson. You may leave us now.” Mrs. Hudson presses her lips together and moves toward the door, an insult most definitely on the tip of her tongue. When the door slams Mycroft's voice rings through the flat once more.

"Now that we're alone, on to more pressing matters."

Sherlock groans, his deep grunt reverbrating through the flat. “Don't you have some terrorist attack to prevent…. or deploy? Why must you come and disturb me in my solitude?”

“You disturb my life with your antics consistently.”

“I thought we made a deal. I don't come to your dungeon in hell, and you don't come to Baker Street.”

“Usually I'd be more than happy to oblige, but I have a case that requires your level of...finesse.”

“By finesse you mean leg work.”

“Mm.” Mycroft nods as he pulls out the file from seemingly nowhere. “Beatrice and Harold Barton, two ministry officials, were seen coming back to their home in Knottingham Hill at a7:48pm. Their son Charles Barton, age seventeen, arrived home at 4:32pm from football practice. All three of them were in the home. I imagine they had a late dinner, played a riveting game of chess, and then made their way to bed. The next morning Charles wakes up covered in blood and Mr. And Mrs. Barton bodies are missing.”

“Kid does it. Hides the bodies. Case solved.”

“Come now Sherlock you know me better than that. Do you think I'd bring you something so rudimentary?”

Sherlock doesn't reply, but his interest spikes. There's a physical change in his posture as he leans forward, ready to pounce for more information.

“There are CCTV cameras stationed outside the house. They don't show Charles dragging anything outside the house. So where did the bodies go?”

“Mm...check the walls?"

“Checked them.”

“Murder weapon?”

“A gun was found hidden under Charles’ bed. Since they have no bodies, they have no bullets. But I don't believe that will be enough to save him.”

“Motive?”

“Charles was just engaged to a wealthy bureaucrats daughter. He made his position about that arrangement very clear on social media.”

Mycroft hands Sherlock his tablet and shows him Charles’ Facebook page.

“I didn't know you had Facebook Mycroft. Look at you, you're practically pedestrian.” Sherlock reads over the message, ignoring Mycroft's glare.

Status 1

_Charles : I hate my parents._

_Reply from Frederick: What happened love?_

_Charles: Call me please._

Status 2  
  
_Charles: It doesn't matter how much money they hold over my head I'll never marry that bitch._

_*Frederick likes this status*_

Status 3

  
_Charles: Kill me?_

_Reply from Frederick: Or them? Lol_

 

“What do you think?” Mycroft asks.

“A poor effort at best. You haven't even finished your profile Mycroft. You could have least put a picture,” Sherlock jeers.

“About the case, Sherlock!” Mycroft snatches the tablet from his hands.

“Mm.” Sherlock taps his chin. “Frederick?”

“A friend of the suspects.” .

“Lover,” Sherlock corrects.

“Lover?”

“Yes, obviously he's the lover. Look at the frequency of his messages to the suspect. The intimacy in the pictures they're in together, the use of pet names, the smilies.”

“Smilies?” Mycroft frowns.

“Never mind.” Sherlock waves his hand. “Your lack of text talk knowledge is as appalling as your navigation of social media.”

Mycroft sniffs before he straightens the front panel of his suit.

 **Bing** *

Lestrade: Got a case. Come to the Yard.

Sherlock stands and replaces his robe with his black wool dress jacket.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft says, hiding his mouth full of biscuit.

“Work.”

“This is work. Two people have died. I would think that would be enough macabre to entice even you.”

“Yes, yes. Rich boy shoots mummy and daddy. Boo hoo. It's all very dull Mycroft. Have them question the son’s lover and let me know what comes of it.”

“You think Charles' friend did it?”

“No, but I think Charles would have confided information to Frederick that's relevant to this case.” Sherlock never stops moving toward the door. “Find the lover. Bring him in for questioning.” Sherlock pauses as he reaches the door handle. He turns toward Mycroft who has another biscuit to his lip. “Oh by the way Mycroft.” Mycroft raises his head. “How's the diet going?” Sherlock grabs his black trench, the tail swooping through the air, and vanishes before Mycroft can reply.


	3. Interrogation

Sherlock steps into the New Scotland Yard, his footsteps sure and focused.

 _A case, finally_.

His hands itch as he pulls open the precinct door and he sees Sally, Anderson and Lestrade all huddled together in deep thought. A thrilling chill runs up Sherlock’s spine as he thinks about a case that would have them looking so somber.

 _Must be a good one,_ he thinks, hiding the impish smile on his lips. John says taking pleasure in people’s misery isn’t an endearing trait, so Sherlock tries to keep his morbid nature to an acceptable level. For John's sense of righteousness of course. 

Still, he can’t help but snigger when he realizes they’re all being chewed out by Lestrade’s enraged boss. He waits in the hallway until the balding red faced man comes barreling out, huffing like a baited bull. Sherlock stares after him momentarily before he opens the door, as though he hasn't been waiting, as though he isn't brimming with anticipation, and closes it after him. With a smile he says, “what has all the lemmings grouped up and ready for the slaughter?” 

They all look up, he's sure, just to glare at him as he sits in one of two chairs in Lestrade’s office. Lestrade ruffles his thick fingers through his hair, _clear indication of stress,_ before he sighs.

“It’s this case.” Sherlock’s feet thump as he lifts them up onto Lestrade’s desk and grabs a squishy stress ball.

“Messed it up already?” He tosses the ball in the air.

“We didn’t do anything,” Sally responds defensively.

“So why are you being reprimanded for questioning a suspect?” He tosses the ball up once more.

“Classified information,” Anderson replies. Sherlock can't help the smirk on his lips.

“Meaning, you're afraid the big bad wolf will come to blow your department down.” Lestrade grabs the ball out of the air.

“He’s underage,” he says before Anderson can shout Sherlock down. “Didn’t go through the proper procedures and someone got word of it. Some hoity toity higher up slammed down on us like a goddam press machine.”

“I’ve always said protocol is the most important thing.” Sherlock doesn't struggle to sound sincere even as he transfers his attention to the confidential file and slides it across the desk.  “Vilmos Mackey.” Sherlock reads excitedly. “Eleven years old, lives in Knottingham-” _Wait. Didn't he just get this case?_

“Found standing outside of the house covered in blood at two in the morning by a neighbor,” Lestrade said.

_Yes. He did just get this case, with a different cast of characters._

“She brought him in and called the police,” Lestrade finishes.

“Good Samaritan was she?” Sherlock tuts. The similarities between this case and the one Mycroft tried to shove on him are glaring. “Well, not even youth can protect a murderer.”

“No but political asylum can.”

 “Political….what?”

“He’s a Hungarian refugee.”

Sherlock arches his brow and Lestrade explains. “Turns out the kid was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Mackey. They got him from a Hungarian orphanage when he was two years old. The problem is they never officially adopted him.”

“So he's an illegal immigrant who supposedly killed his adoptive parents.”

“Yeah it's the Conservatives worse nightmare come to life.” Sherlock folds his hands together listening. “Not only that, he’s special, this kid. Some kind of musical prodigy.”

Sherlock snorts and shakes his head. “A musical prodigy.” He sighs. “Well they do say we with brilliant minds have the most tortured souls.”

Sally snorts and shakes her head. “They also say they make the best killers.”

“We don’t know that he murdered them,” Sherlock murmurs, as he reads the child's file.

“Yeah, and we don't know that he didn't either.”

“Oh yes, sound logic, Donovan. ‘Assume guilty before we've reviewed the facts.’” Sherlock slaps the folder on the desk, already bored with its contents. “Go ahead and make that The Yards campaign this year Lestrade.”

Sally scowls at Sherlock before Lestrade says, “regardless, we don’t have the clearance to question him.”

“You don’t.” Sherlock moves his feet to the floor. “But I’m not part of your team. _I_ can talk to him all I want.” He heads toward the holding rooms on the second floor. _And hopefully I can solve both cases before dinner._

“No.” Lestrade slams his hand on the desk and Sherlock turns back toward him. “This isn’t one of your games Sherlock! This kid is being protected by the right people. We wait for the lawyer, and we go from there. I'm not stirring the shit pot for your kicks.”

“No need to stir. Just stand nearby for the effect of the fumes.” Lestrade growls.

“You know, now that I’m thinking about it, the freak might actually get the kid to talk. They’re both mental after all.”

“Though I’m happy you’ve taken the time to use your brain today, I have to wonder what you mean by ‘mental.’”

“The little shit barely talks according to the neighbor. He writes everything down,” Sally answers.

“He can’t speak?”

“He _can_ speak, he just chooses not to. Neighbor says he writes mostly everything. 

“Oh.” Sherlocks eyes glint. “I see.” The case gets more and more interesting and Sherlock’s mind practically whistling, it spins so fast. 

Lestrade shoots Sally a look before he says, “Sherlock, look. I know I called you down here, but-”

“Let me see him,” Sherlock says simply. He doesn’t have time for Lestrade’s explanations and excuses. It's been ages since he had one. A fix. A drink to quench this thirst. The longer they wait the more time they lose before the lawyer arrives.

“I promise I won’t ask anything regarding the case. I just want to have a look at him. See what I’m working with.” Sally, Anderson, and Lestrade exchange varying looks. Each with some degree of doubt and uncertainty. Sherlock can’t tell whether they’re afraid at what he’ll say, or what he’ll do. He can agree his behavior at times may be a bit...erratic, but nothing to solicit so much concern. He’s an adult after all. He can control himself.

Lestrade stands from his desk and grumbles, “all right. Not that your promises are worth a damn.” He pushes open the door to his office and follows Sherlock to the holding rooms. Sherlock steps bounce when he walks, heat practically radiating in his shoes, warming the very tips of his toes as he moves toward the elevator. When they reach the second floor, there’s an obvious change in scenery. Where upstairs has plenty of windows and natural light, the second floor is a blank canvas of strobe lights, white clinic walls and linoleum floors. They walk down the halls and Sherlock’s boots tap, tap, tap, _drum roll for his prize no doubt._ He turns the corner before Lestrade, but he feels a taut grip on his shoulder followed by a grunt.

“I’m warning you, Sherlock. You mess this up and we’re through, you hear me?” Sherlock can smell the dominance oozing from Lestrade’s threat . He doesn’t know whether the man is intentionally trying to biologically intimidate him, or whether it flows out involuntarily, but Sherlock has to stop his upper lip from quivering at the edge in the DI’s voice, and the smell.

 _That smell_.

To Sherlock, Lestrade might as well be on top of him. And although that thought has crossed his mind, _once or twice,_ in his desperate heat induced days and hungry for a rut nights. Those were the days before John, and mating, and scenting, and before all that “domestic bliss” spewing from Baker Street.

Now though, it's unwelcome. Now it's suffocating. It isn’t just a matter of being anxious, his brain can’t separate the man from the alpha. He has the urge to make himself smaller, and less noticeable, despite his own arrogance. It's equal parts annoying and infuriating, and yet, Sherlock is used to this. All he can do is curse his biology - _damn biology-_ and wait for Lestrade to pull back.

A part of him wishes John was here to avoid this kind of confrontation. Lestrade would never so much as graze against him, let alone touch him in John's presence. But Sherlock knows alphas are easily enticed, and a lone omega, despite their bonding status, is looked at as vulnerable and controllable, no matter how intelligent they are.

Sherlock can't be too upset about it. The trade off for bodily autonomy (since omegas have no control over their bodies about half the time, according to “science”) is unequivocal accountability from their alphas. This need for Lestrade to show dominance is the same part of the alpha that would have them fight for their partner no questions asked. The same part that would die for their mate. Burn for their mate.

_Turn the other cheek at protocol and let him interrogate an unaccompanied minor...let him, a person unaffiliated with any Yard in London, sit in on crime scenes for fun…. commit criminal acts for him, once….twice….but who's keeping count?_

So a part of Sherlock wants to tell Lestrade to go fuck himself, and break his wrist in two places. The other part _needs_ Lestrade’s instincts on the surface since it's the only reason Sherlock is being allowed to see this kid in the first place.

A part of him wants John to witness Lestrade’s display, to see his alpha in full rage, simply because it turns him on, manipulating as it might be. The other part knows it would delay the case, and Sherlock has no patience for that. His biology serves its purpose and baiting John isn't it. Besides where's the fun in catching what he already has. 

When Lestrade finally releases him from the intoxicating bind Sherlock can move again. He lets out a breath before he smiles and steps back.

“If you put that much effort into your marriage, your wife wouldn't have hired that new personal trainer Lestrade.” Sherlock pats the man’s cheek playfully. He doesn't wait to answer the DI’s questions about how he knows his wife hired an Argentinian personal trainer who wears Armani cologne, meets her at the house instead of the gym, and makes homemade fruit smoothies. All of that can wait because Sherlock is here. He's finally _here._ Standing outside of the steel gray, almost steel weight of the interrogation room door.

“Ten minutes.” Sherlock nods at Lestrade’s last effort for control.  He turns the handle and steps in, but the instant his foot touches the carpet in the interrogation room, he feels it...the crushing wave. He smells it, the scent of sex and vomit, and feces. He sees it, that man riding him. Choking him. His eyes bulging and wet. 

Sherlock holds his mouth and nose, gagging through the scent. That same sick, dreading bile that creeps up into his dreams- his nightmares- suffocating him so absolutely. The same oppressive power from Lestrade, but this time internally. An ache like a fist imploding his heart. It stamps out his willpower, and his cognizance, rendering him deaf and dumb. It's a miracle he can step back, and he does, gingerly. As if he’s new to walking. As if he's missing his leg brace or a walking stick.

_Can't_

_Can't._

_Can't._

He reverses out of the room and leans against the wall, breath hastening as his throat begins to close, and the tears begin to form in his eyes. The memories begin to resurface and he clamps down on the tail end of his rationale. He closes his eyes and the blackness helps him clear away the miasma.

“Sherlock?” He hears Lestrade’s worried voice somewhere between the mizzle. Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes, but he nods and swallows deep. He tries to keep his head as clear as possible before he opens his eyes to face the three investigators curious, concerned, and somehow, indignant looks.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock stutters out and stands upright.

“What the fuck just happened?” Lestrange whispers. 

“Hypoglycemia,” Sherlock lies. And it's a good lie. Suddenly he's grateful for his recent check up with John.

“Hypoglei-what?” Lestrade’s brow furrows.

“Low blood sugar. I need food.”

“Sure. Sure.” Lestrade sends Sally and Anderson for snacks. Sherlock listens to Sally mumble about “not her job”. Sherlock takes the minute to breathe deep. His hands are shaking. His forehead is dripping. His coat feels like a straitjacket. His head is a buzzing mess.

_Shit._

_Shit._

_Shit._

It doesn’t make any sense. He hasn’t had a panic attack in years, but now for some reason…

“You sure you’re all right?” Lestrade is starting to have second thoughts about him going in to talk with the boy. He can tell by the way his mouth is twitching, and crease between his graying brows.

“I’m fine.” It takes more strength and energy than Sherlock will ever admit to stand upright. His legs are still tingling, still weak, but he can’t let this opportunity go just because he had a mental relapse. He sniffs and wipes his dripping nose on the sleeve of his jacket. Not quite posh, but he's done worse in way worse places. He walks into the room to observe the prize for his persistence. He can still feel the hand crushing him, but he fights the urge to collapse into the chair and sits at the empty table smoothly. There’s a child sitting across from him, a blank expression on his face.

_Interesting._

The child, long for eleven, has black wavy hair and pale skin _._ Sherlock looks at the state of his clothes.

_Unlike Charles’ family Vilmos isn't from a wealthy home. He's an only child, but parents are middle class. His shoes are about three months old judging by the laces. Strange, he’s wearing a collared shirt._

Sherlock didn’t think children dressed in collared shirts unless they were going somewhere special, like a birthday party, or church. However, this kid’s shirt is weathered, the stitching frayed at the seams. He’s worn it many times. Overall though, he looks ordinary. There’s nothing about him that says “prodigy” or “killer”... _or Hungarian_ ….Sherlock notes.

“Hello,” Sherlock says quietly.

The child looks up at him, not overly attentive, but enough that Sherlock knows he’s heard him speak.

“Oh, good. You’re not deaf.” The child doesn’t reply. Whether he's insulted Sherlock can't tell. _Are children insulted by that kind of thing?_

“No you’re not deaf, but you’re not going to talk to me, because you’re afraid.”

The child looks at him, but still doesn’t respond.

“Well I can tell you that there’s nothing to be afraid of, but you won’t believe me anyway. So it’s a waste of my time and yours. I don’t have time to waste. I want to find your parents as quickly as possible so I can solve more intellectually stimulating cases. Do you think you can help me do that?” He’s not exactly sure he’ll find the kid’s parents alive, but he doesn’t tell him that.

No response still, but the child is watching Sherlock intently, as if he’s the first person to mention his parents all day. As if the fact that they're dead, or kidnapped, or whatever they are, and not gone out to get takeaway, is news to him.

“Would it help if I got you some paper, Vilmos?” The child blinks. “That's your name right, Vilmos? I’ve been told that you prefer to write things out.”

No reply. Sherlock can’t say he didn’t expect that, but he’s more concerned with the utter blankness of the boy’s expression. Sherlock can’t read him at all. It’s as if he’s studied how to be emotionless his entire life.

Sherlock raises his hand for Lestrade to send in paper when he hears a clear voice speak.

“I don’t need any paper. I’m perfectly capable of speaking.” Sherlock’s hand falls slowly.

“If you can speak, why don’t you answer a few of my questions?”

“Why don’t _you_ answer few of _my_ questions. Starting with who you are. You're not a police, so why are you here?” It's a counter offer from an eleven year old and Sherlock has to reel in the smirk on his face. He didn't see it in the profile, but he's suddenly sure this child is an alpha.

“How’s this. We’ll do an exchange. You answer one of my questions, and I’ll answer one of yours. Does that sound good Vilmos?”

“Fair, not good.” He nods once. “I'll go first.” Sherlock can’t ignore the obstinacy in the boy’s voice. Even though he’s been held alone in an interrogation room for hours, he isn’t afraid or intimidated at all. Vilmos proves him wrong for the first, but Sherlock suspects, not the last time that day.

"You’re not a police, so who are you?”

“What makes you so sure I'm not a police?”

“You don't look like a police,” Vilmos replies.

“Well, you don’t much look like a prodigy so....I’d say we’re even.” Vilmos scowls.

“Your coat.”

“What about my coat?” Sherlock bites back a smile and cocks his eyebrow.

“It’s too nice for you to be a police. The wool...your coat is designer made, by hand, not manufactured. Your shoes, they’re italian leather. The way you speak…it’s...you don’t speak like a police.”

Sherlock eyes him. It’s not as sophisticated or concrete as his own observations, but it’s a step above anything The Yard has to offer. A not so thrilling chill climbs up Sherlock’s tailbone and he scrutinizes the boy more closely. His high cheekbones and almond eyes are familiar, but he can’t remember where he’s seen them before. “Are you going to tell me who you really are?”

Sherlock considers Vilmos' question. He also considers lying before he realizes he has no reason to. This child is a murderer by the looks of him- the calm exterior, the lack of emotion, and the carelessness about his parents disappearance.

 Sherlock is pretty sure Vilmos is guilty, at least as an accomplice. And despite John’s warnings about socializing with murderers, (a delicious irony too obvious even for Sherlock to point out) Sherlock remains convinced that the best way to catch a murderer is to become as familiar as possible with said killer. He vaguely remembers some trite saying about friends and enemies.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have a blog with my partner, John Watson. You might have heard of it?” The boy shakes his head slowly, but Sherlock’s not sure if he's truthful. “Mm. That’s okay.” Sherlock leans in closer.

“Tell me, Vilmos.” The more he says the child's name the less it fits. Even if this child were born in the dankest of dungeons, in the most exalted of Hungarian castles, never would they ever claim this dark, curly haired, olive skinned brat as a native Hungarian. Anglo saxon, yes, but there was a foreign quality about him. It made Sherlock desperately curious to know Vilmos' birth parents, his birth story, and for all intensive purposes, his actual birth place. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I’m here because they think I killed my parents. Are you a police?” He answers the first question as casually as he ask the next.  Sherlock doesn't need a degree in psychoanalysis to know that _that_ is _not_ normal.  Not that he has any degrees in what's normal either. As a self proclaimed sociopath, for him, normal is the equivalent to boring and ordinary. John is the closest thing he has to normalcy, but even their relationship isn’t considered “normal” to outsiders.

“You’re right you know, about what you said. They think you killed them. Do you know why?”

“That's two questions you’ve asked while avoiding my own.” The boy holds up two fingers to indicate that Sherlock's asked two questions as opposed to the one they agreed upon. “They found me alone, covered in blood, standing outside of my house,” Vilmos says as if both the scenario and the question have bored him. “You’re not a police, are you Sherlock?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly, bemused by the way this child enraptures him with gray hard eyes, and Vilmos returns his stare hungrily- not sexually- but somehow, _intimately_. 

 _Those eyes.  
_  
Sherlock is sure he’s seen them, _felt_ them…. _somewhere….somewhere…._

“No. I’m not,” Sherlock whispers. He watches as the boys ravenous stare grows curious, and that jolts him out of his daze. “Why were you alone standing outside of your house covered in blood?”

“Because I was told to,” he says simply. Sherlock tilts his head.

“I was already covered in blood,” he explains at Sherlock’s confused gaze. “But I was told to go outside. If you’re not a police, how is it that you’re here talking to me? Mr. M said that there would be a lot of police trying to talk to me and I shouldn’t say anything to them. But you’re not a police.” Vilmos tilts his head. “So how is it they let you in?”

“I’m a consulting detective.” Sherlock drums his fingertips on the table trying not to let his excitement show.

 _Mr. M. The boy spoke with someone named Mr. M before he was picked up. There’s no way this person has nothing to do with Vilmos' missing parents, and probably Charles’ as well. It's too much of a coincidence. And there's no such thing as a coincidence anyway. Probable or improbable. Fact or fiction._ Those are the lines Sherlock works in. 

Sherlock's palms begin to sweat, but he hardens his voice from shaking. “You said Mr. M took you outside and told you not to talk to the police.” Sherlock’s brow raises. “Who is Mr. M?”

“He’s a friend,” Vilmos replies. “He’s the one who pays for my music lessons. Sometimes when I’m in trouble he comes and helps me out. Takes me places on my birthday. He watches me all the time. He sends me messages.”

”What kind of messages?”

“Small things usually.” He raises two fingers once more. “Notes and riddles. He makes sure I’m safe. When I woke up covered in blood, someone from his office came to my house, and helped me downstairs. Then they handed me the phone and Mr. M told me to ‘stay there.’ And to wait for someone to find me. Then his worker disappeared and a few minutes later Mrs. Clarington found me on the lawn.”  

 _So this mastermind, for lack of better word, in vantage point mode, was there minutes before the police were called._ The question is: _why?_

_Why is he setting these kids up? This “Mr. M”._

_What did William do?_

_What did Charles do?_

_How are they connected?_

_Other than Vilmos looking familiar, what made him less ordinary than he appeared to be?_

And the feeling Sherlock gets putting together this puzzle. It’s like the missing piece isn’t missing at all, but hidden under some old, neglected, raggedy couch.

“Why are you so sweaty?” Vilmos asks. The question jolts Sherlock out of his reverie once more. And this time he does lie, because a child knows nothing of panic attacks and trauma. And even if he does there is a such thing as oversharing, as John often reminds him.

“I felt a bit dizzy because I haven’t eaten today.” Sherlock smiles in what he hopes is an apologetic way.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine don’t worry.” But telling this child not to worry about him feels very much like telling Mycroft not to worry about him. Sherlock isn’t sure exactly why that is.

“Do you often skip meals?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock shakes his head (lies). “I don’t skip meals. I eat my vegetables, drink plenty of milk, exercise and never eat junk food. All right?” Then he holds up a nil fist. “We’re even now.”

Vilmos presses his lips together unamused. His almond silver eyes are stern and unyielding. He supposes this child probably hasn't presented yet, which is why he didn't read it in his file, but it won't be long. He's affected by Sherlock's distress because of his biology. That he's an alpha, Sherlock is sure of, but that's about the only thing he's sure of.  They’re talking, but Sherlock still can’t read him. It’s all blanks and question marks on his side of the table.

“What instrument do you play?”

True to alpha form when goaded by their own interest, Vilmos' eyes grow lighter at the question, face evens and relaxes, shoulders slacken and a broad smile creases Vilmos' lips.

“I play the cello.” And Sherlock thinks _this_ \- how Vilmos looks now- is how children _should_ look. And he wonders what has happened in the child's life to make his default demeanor so unchildlike. But Sherlock doesn't allow himself to dwell on such things. This child, interesting as he might be, is a suspect in a murder case.

Sherlock hardens his resolve as he hears a knock at the door letting him know his time is up. He stands, and Vilmos' eyes follow him all the way to the door. There’s a longing there Sherlock can’t explain, and he’s not sure he wants to begin to try to understand why he’s felt uneasy since the moment he walked into the interrogation room.  
  
_No matter,_ Sherlock thinks, and he steps into the much less oppressive air of the hallway. It’s not like himself to involve _himself_ so personally, and he’s not about to muse over a possible motive without more evidence.

* * *

Sherlock makes his way out of the interrogation room with just enough time before the lawyer arrives. Mark Davidson. He's a sharp suit with a distressed leather briefcase, _from t_ _he style not wear,_ and two hundred pound shoes. Sherlock can't help but notice the way he looks at his watch as though he's clocking in to a nine to five. Sherlock doesn't leave the hallway when the lawyer questions Vilmos in the confines of the interrogation room. Some strange pressure pulling- _no_ \- holding him in place. He needs to get more evidence, he tells himself, and the only way to do that is to _see_ Vilmos Mackey After he speaks with Mr. Davidson. So he waits, and waits, and finally the lawyer comes out looking less than pleased.

“How long have you detained him?” he demands. He has beady eyes underneath his designer lenses. Sherlock notices he doesn't actually look through the glasses. They're likely just for show. The watch on his wrist is a gold, diamond encrusted Rolex and the suit he's wearing puts Sherlock's to shame.

"We kept him for the maximum for juveniles. Ten hours. We've offered him food, but he refuses.”

“What's his bail?”

“One hundred thousand pounds,” Lestrade says. His disgust, less about having a bail put on a child, and more about letting loose a potential murderer. The gold clasp on Mr. Davidson’s briefcase pop open and he pulls out a clean cheque. The pen he conjures has an antique look about it. One where you manually refill the ink. Mycroft would surely have one on his office desk.

“Where did you get that lovely pen?” Sherlock asks, and Lestrange frowns at the seemingly ambiguous question. It's a staple of Sherlock's control that he stops himself from smiling as Davidson smugly answers, ‘my boss.’ 

And here is where things begin to fall into place.  
  
_Well at least somewhat._

Sherlock knows that Mr. Davidson works for Mr. M. It's the only logical correlation. Where else does one find wealthy lawyers willing to bail out Hungarian orphans? So he waits for the man to write out the cheque, and he waits for all the proceedings to come to a close. He waits because he knows that Vilmos will ask this tailored suit man the question he wants to know.

“Where are we going?” The lanky preteen steps out of the interrogation room, shepherded by the _new maternal instinct awakened, Donovan_.

“That’s not for us to discuss here.” The lawyer says as he snaps the briefcase shut once more. “I’m taking you to a secure location.”

And then, as if Sherlock mentally cues him, Lestrade says:

“We’ll need to know that secure location, in case we need or get more information relevant to this case.” It’s perfect, exquisitely alpha, and domineering, and he can see Mr. Davidson hesitating.

“I don’t know any law that states he needs to disclose the location right at this moment. We have twenty four hours to submit that information. My employer wants to make sure Vilmos is properly settled. At that time, we will certainly let you know where he’s being detained.”

“You’re not the kids guardian.” Lestrade's grumble sounds like a growl, and Sherlock wonders whether it’s because of Davidson’s challenging alpha presence, or whether he’s really concerned about the child.

“As Mr. and Mrs. Mackey’s lawyer I’ve been given power of attorney. Vilmos' well being is my responsibility.”

“That would be fine, except Vilmos is a suspect in a murder trial,” Sherlock cuts in. “I hardly think it proper for him to be given to a lawyer working for an anonymous party.” Davidson turns toward him, as if he’s just remembered Sherlock's presence. And Sherlock smiles. That incorrigible simper John always chastises him for.  
  
“Who are you again?” Davidson asks blinking.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock answers. He reaches out his hand, and when he does, Davidson sniffs the air. The movement is subtle, but Sherlock can tell he can smell Lestrade, and John, and under all that alpha musk, omega. Likely stronger than usual from all the sweating he’s done today.

“Pardon.” Davidson clears his throat. “I didn’t realize they let omegas be-” Davidson cuts off his own sentence as if he’s about to utter a curse.

“Be?” Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

“....police these days.” Davidson finishes with a flush of red.

“He’s not a police,” Vilmos pipes, almost indignantly. “He’s a consulting detective.” And for not the first time, Sherlock fights the smile on his thin lips listening to Vilmos' reply. He steals a glance at the boy and isn’t surprised at the gray eyes waiting for him.

“Well, this has been...tedious” Davidson pulls on his coat as if to dismiss the conversation completely.  “Let’s go, Vilmos.”

“We still need to know where you’re taking him,” Sherlock says with more heat than he intends. An actual growl escapes _his_ throat this time. And he wonders if he’s about to go into an early heat after all. His protective instincts for children aren’t usually so obvious. And this kid, if he’s honest, is probably a murderer. And, if he’s honest, Vilmos being a potential murderer, is probably what intrigues Sherlock. Why else would he care so much?  

“I’ve already told you, to a secure location. Once we settle on where that is, we’ll inform the _police._ ” Davidson emphasizes the word so Sherlock understands he doesn’t intend to discuss it further with him. Sherlock turns to Lestrade for back up, but the DI is scrubbing his fingers through his graying hair in that miserable way he does when his hands are tied.  
  
Davidson moves to grab the briefcase and gives Lestrade one more penetrating look. Vilmos pulls on his own jacket, and he follows Davidson down the white hallway.

“Vilmos,” Sherlock calls after the boy. He turns his head back, gray eyes swimming with the first traces of fear.

“My website…” Sherlock gives him a headlong look before he winks. “Check it out.” There’s a moment, like a discreet nod, or a gentle squeeze of a knee cap under the table, when their eyes connect. Confusion first, then confirmation, and then finally an understanding. Vilmos about faces and follows Mr. M’s henchmen out of the holding room of The Yard.  And though Sherlock didn’t speak aloud, and Vilmos never replied, it’s obvious he's heard his coded message. Loud and clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for how long this chapter took. It's predominantly a result of the holidays and work, but also, I needed to make sure I'm keeping track of everything for the case part of this fic. I don't wanna get 7 chapt. deep and realize I've fucked myself with the plot. Anyway. I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave feedback good or bad! Happy New Year!


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